


with your heart beating fast you go real slow

by Maculategiraffe



Series: it won't be a stylish marriage [7]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Cuddles, First Kiss, First Times, Kissing, Light Dom/sub, Love, M/M, Nudity, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, accidental triggering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-31 03:15:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17841380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maculategiraffe/pseuds/Maculategiraffe
Summary: the_ragnarok asked for some "first negotiations" moments from when John and Harold are settling into a relationship.  So kind of a mid-quel, from between what we see in one tense of the last chapter of "built for two" and the other one, if that makes sense.





	with your heart beating fast you go real slow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_ragnarok](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/gifts).



> This is a quickie, just because the amazing the_ragnarok asked for it, and to help enable their amazing spinoff in progress [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17725256/chapters/41817425).
> 
> Since Daisy isn't actually in this one, I took the liberty of titling it after a song that isn't "Daisy Bell": [Christine Kane's "She Don't Like Roses."](https://youtu.be/XQOslI8vNE8)

The first night they spend in the same house, John's left alone. 

It's OK. He's used to it. Daisy always left him alone at night, for at least ten hours, usually more. He slept fine then, mostly. Mostly he was too tired to do anything else.

And now--

He doesn't expect anything. Of course he doesn't. Just because they're living together. Just because they have to, for Daisy's protection to fully extend to Harold. Harold doesn't bear her mark. If anything were to happen, John would need to be close, at least this close, divided only by--

John can't sleep.

A few hours in, he gets up, moves quietly, so quietly, as if he'll be punished if he's caught, to the door of Harold's room. Lies down across the threshold, like a dog. Closes his eyes. 

If he holds his breath, he can fool himself that he can hear Harold breathing, instead.

..........

The first night they spend in the same bed-- when Harold's pulled him up, John trying his best to cooperate, stumbling towards the bed, ashamed and grateful-- John still can't sleep, not at first.

He's quivering, with Harold's nearness, wound almost too tight to lie still, like a blue-balled teenager. He wants so much to be-- 

\-- _taken_ , not like a whore but like Harold's property, _used_ like Harold's computer, like his shoes or his shower, half smiled at and slipped into--

He stays quiet, though. If Harold doesn't want him for this-- if he only brought John into his bed out of simple human charity, not wanting another man to shiver on the floor because he's too fucked up to sleep in a bed alone--

Harold sits up, turns the light back on, turns to John.

John tries not to cower. He's _sorry,_ though he hardly knows what for.

Then Harold does take hold of him, and John almost whimpers, shaking and yielding, _anything you want, please--_

Harold holds him close. Not hurting. Not taking his pleasure, either. Harold's warm, Harold's arms around him are firm, Harold's voice says, "John-- it's all right. It's all right. I'm here. I've got you." 

It's the first time he falls asleep in Harold's arms, too, his head on Harold's shoulder, and they haven't even done anything, but John's still held, warm, safe. Harold safe, too, in his arms, John deemed worthy, at least of this. 

Of this. There's nothing _least_ about it.

.............

It's ironic, considering how grateful he was for the routine privilege of clothes when he lived at Daisy's, but John finds himself asking, "Do you mind, me being-- should I wear something? To bed?"

Harold's gaze sweeps John's body. John feels it like a touch.

It doesn't matter to Daisy, he doesn't think, whether he's naked or not. Except in terms of-- accessibility. For her, his body is more or less just an interface.

But Harold _looks_ at him, and John flushes with pleasurable heat, wants to stretch and preen.

Even if that's all Harold wants to do, just look. That's-- something.

"I don't-- expect you-- to be naked," says Harold carefully.

"But you don't mind?"

"No," says Harold. "I don't mind."

John grins, wide, at that, startling Harold into grinning back at him.

"OK," he says. "Good."

.............

_What do you want?_

_I want whatever you want._

Harold's short, sharp exhale of frustration. Displeased. And no wonder. He doesn't want John's fawning, groveling, servile answers, his appeasing lies; he wants the truth.

It's not John's fault, that the truth of him now sounds like a lie. 

............

The first time Harold kisses his lips, it's awkward, almost clumsy, in that sweet hesitant way of Harold's. As if John's fragile.

John feels clumsy too, not knowing how eager to be in return, not knowing how to play this, sluttish or shy or--

Harold backs off, flushed, says, "I'm sorry, I--"

"No--" John can't stand that. "No, don't be sorry, don't-- don't stop, please."

"You want--?"

"Please," says John.

Harold kisses him again, more confident now, eager, and John matches his eagerness, move for move, like a dance.

When Harold pulls away again, John's breath hitches in his chest and heat swells in his eyes, as he smiles at Harold.

Then it's the first time Harold kisses his eyelids, too, the tears at the corners of his eyes. Kisses them away, his lips warm, sweet and salt when they touch John's mouth again, and again.

.............

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

He can't say it as often as he thinks it, which is all the time, with the rhythm of every breath, every heartbeat.

But he can say it sometimes. His heart leaping upward, every time, to hear itself spoken aloud.

..............

The first time Harold slides fingers into his hair is almost the last.

They're on the couch together and they're kissing, holding each other, this miracle, and then the hand in John's hair tightens unexpectedly, and without meaning to he flinches and makes a sound, a pathetic sound, a tiny, choked, hopeless sob--

But the hand doesn't grip harder, it lets go, as Harold pulls away, says, "John? Are you all right?"

It's _Harold._ Harold would never--

"Did I hurt you?" Harold asks, worried, tilting John's face to peer into it searchingly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to--"

"It's not that," says John, and it's really not, the pain was nothing, nothing compared to what he can take, will happily take, if Finch ever wants him to. 

"Do you not like-- having your hair touched?" Finch asks, frowning, and John's so alarmed at the idea that Finch might never do that again that he blurts out, "No, I _love_ that--"

Harold's _face._ John should remember to say what he loves more often.

"I just-- the-- pulling," he says. "It makes me feel--"

He doesn't know how to explain; he hardly even knows himself, what made him jump and yelp like that. Daisy's taken him by the hair sometimes, in her businesslike way, moving or positioning him-- she doesn't always feel like instructing him aloud-- and it hasn't bothered him particularly. 

But the feeling of helplessness, of being _handled,_ like an object, is routine with Daisy. It doesn't feel-- like--

\--no matter how much he's willing, would put himself anywhere if they'd just tell him, just be a little _patient--_

"You don't have to explain," says Finch. "If you don't like it, I won't do it."

John says, "Thank you," and, because he's effectively ruined the mood with his whining, "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be sorry, either," says Finch. "Come-- lie down-- put your head here."

He pats his thigh.

John lays himself down, glad for an order to obey. Rests his cheek on Harold's leg, where he touched.

Harold touches his hair, very lightly. Just touching, at first. Then stroking. Very, very gently.

John closes his eyes, tries to remember how to breathe normally. 

It gets easier.

.................

"You need a safeword," says Finch.

John snorts. "No I don't."

He's familiar with the concept, of course, but he's never used one in his life. Anyone who'd give him one in the first place was never going to drive him hard enough that he'd need it.

"Let me rephrase that slightly," says Harold, looking at John over his glasses. "Choose a safeword, John."

John grins at him. God, he loves the over-the-glasses look. "I can't get out of this without a safeword, can I?"

Harold smiles back. "No."

"Dammit," John says, happily. "Fine. I'll think of something."

........................

The second time Harold says it-- the first time, in their new life-- it isn't in answer to anything John said, or did, not that John knows of. 

They're just waking up-- John waking to the sound of Harold waking, the stirring and the shift to the rhythm of his breath-- and he opens his eyes, already smiling, and finds Finch looking at him.

He says, "I love you, John."

John draws in his breath, holds it, holds onto the moment, the position of his body, what did he do right, how can he do it again--

"For heaven's sake," Harold says, tenderly, and touches John's hair. "This can't possibly come as a surprise. Breathe, John."

John does, breathes, the air of their bedroom, their shared air, sweet and dizzying as if he's only just now broken some surface, into an element where it isn't-- 

\--so hard, just to get what you need to keep going. Where there's enough, in every breath, and more than enough.

He wants Harold to say it again, but he doesn't ask, he doesn't want to be greedy. It's enough, it's more than enough, that John believes him.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't worry, he's gonna learn to ask :D


End file.
